


please, sweetheart?

by EnemiesWithBenefits



Series: self insert undertale [12]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Comfort fic, Fluff, Hints of Sin, Other, Praise, sick reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 14:36:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10414374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnemiesWithBenefits/pseuds/EnemiesWithBenefits
Summary: You didn't expect that.





	

You're not quite sure what you did to deserve this.

 

It's early and the alarm on your phone is shrill, a shifting body behind you groaning, tightening its grip on your waist. You agree with your own voiced annoyance, voice croaking out in tandem.

 

You feel like _shit._

 

“Sans -” After you reach over far enough to silence your alarm, you slowly shift to try and leave. It seems he has a different idea on mind, his phalanges digging further into your side. He's not letting go. “ _Sans._ C’mon, let go _._ ”

 

Another low rumble, and he only pulls you closer.

 

With a long, defeated sigh you flop down into his pulling grip, finding yourself suddenly flush with his front to your back. The curve of his permanent smile is physical against the skin of your neck, ghosting over your nape before he presses in, nasal ridge scraping your scalp as he breathes in.

 

“ _Sans -”_

 

“* don’ smell t’good.” You can feel the way his grin turns down at the edges, voice husky and a low drawl from slumber. Quietly, you try to turn and face him, but he's not really conducive to making any progress. Instead, you opt to interlock your hand with one of his own, fingers entwining with smooth phalanges.

 

“Sore throat. ‘S fine.” Part of you always wonders how the hell he can pinpoint exactly when your feeling sick, menstruating, terrified, _aroused_ -

 

He's a skeleton for fucks sake, and you're getting tired of him just grinning smugly and wiggling his fingers to the droll explanation of ‘magic.’

 

“* stay.” His grip becomes firm, even more so than before. You've really got to go - sore throat or no sore throat, work’s important.

 

“As much as I want to stay - I _can't.”_

 

And God, you want to stay - he's definitely not making this any easier on you.

 

There's something low rumbling in his chest, a physical sensation against your back that shoots down your spine and pools heat between your legs. It doesn't help that he's nipping at the backside of your neck - earning himself a sharp whine.

 

For a skeleton that loves to do nothing and sleeps in until 4 in the afternoon, he really was willing to work hard at keeping you here, with him.

 

On days like these, you _really_ hated him.

 

“Please?” You try again, biting your lip to ignore the fact he’s not stopping the way he laves attention to your neck. “It's Friday - I'll be home e-early and then we’ve got the wh-whole weeke - _ah!_ ”

 

Suddenly and without much warning he's moved the two of you so he's straddling you - there's something firm in the dim, small lights of his eye-sockets. Something final.

 

“* yer not goin’.” His hand is pressing against your stomach, the shirt you'd thrown on before bed - one of his - having ridden up to expose as much. You shudder at how warm his bones are against your skin, at how _familiar_ his touch rings within you.

 

You reach up a hand to try and push him off. Even if you do stay home, you're not doing _this._

 

Not _now._

 

He's snatching your hand before it reaches him, pulling it above you and leaning in. He gathers the other far too quickly with the same iron-tight grip, the action alone making you gasp in the face of his narrowed gaze.

 

He's got you pinned now, staring up at him with wide eyes and a pleading expression. His own gaze is considerate, quiet, as a free hand reaches up to cup your face and brush a gentle thumb against your lower lip.

 

A big part of you wants him to just let you go already - another smaller, yet quickly growing portion, doesn't want him to.

 

“* do ya know how beautiful ya are?” There's something reverent in his voice - like he's praising something godlike. You whine, quietly, and wiggle your hands in his grip. He's doesn't budge. “* stay - don't go if yer gettin’ sick.”

 

He pauses, and when you open your mouth to speak, the thumb over your lips is pressed over them to hush you.

 

“* please, sweetheart?”

 

You didn't expect that.

 

There's something quiet and broken in his voice - something you know better than to ignore after this long.

 

Quietly, slowly, you look him in the eye and give in, nodding.

 

Then, he's letting go of your hands and leaning in further, face once again pressed deep into the crook of your neck. His nasal ridge scratches your skin with how hard he holds himself to your skin, the warm bones of his face and contours of his smiling features eliciting a shudder from your pliant form.

 

He takes another deep draw of your scent, and you bring up gentle hands to grasp at him, at his shoulder blades and spine, holding on tightly.

  
“* thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I found this buried in my undertale files; an old comfort fic I wrote when I was feeling sick.
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr.](https://scripttura.tumblr.com/)


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